My ‘lectures’ normally revolve around one topic, but today I thought we would just have a quick catch up. What’s been happening in the world and so on, and you never know, there may be the odd moan. So here we are.
It’s Thursday the 14th August 2008. . . . . . . ooh I felt a bit like Capt. Kirk then . . . . . . . So, the Olympics are here. Whoopee quite frankly (Oh dear, the moaning has started earlier than I thought) I’m sorry, but I just can’t get enthusiastic about the games what so ever. I’m not particularly sporty, so I suppose that doesn’t entice me to watch any of it. Apparently the Olympics are supposed to represent sort of peace, harmony, sportsmanship, fair play, accord and all that kind of stuff. So I did find it highly amusing seeing the torch bearers surrounded by burly minders, sheepishly jogging along with a fixed smile on their face, as people hurled themselves at them from all directions! Having the symbol of peace and harmony surrounded by huge men in sun glasses carrying M16’s was just priceless. Also all of this “peace and love” was evident when the Chinese authorities demolished loads of peoples homes to make way for stadiums etc etc. What “peace and love” did these poor people get in the way of compensation, or re-housing…….a big fat “piss off”. Splendid. They couldn’t really have picked a worse country to host the Olympics could they, oh yes they could, we have got them next time!
Most of it is just plain boring to watch isn’t it? Yes yes they are all supreme athletes, and yes yes it is all very skillful, and yes yes I admire their dedication, but nobody will ever convince me, that watching the 10,000 meters is ever going to be exciting. Round and round…….zzzzzzz. That weird cycle one, where they follow each other round. . . . .what? Rowing! Oh God rowing, the absolute worst. What oh what oh what is the bloody point in that? Rowing is a good thing, if you are one side of a lake, and you want to get to the other. That’s it, honestly, leave it there. No, we can’t can we. What do we do, we turn it into a race. There are some pointless activities that human beings have come up with, but racing rowing boats is right up there with the worst. Slow, boring, painful, and you can’t see where you are going…….brilliant. I also loved the thing I heard on the news about our hopes for medal success. I heard a bloke saying he was hoping we would come eighth over all. How very British,” No, we don’t want to win it, we will be more than happy with eighth thank you!” I have spent far too long on the Olympics already, but just one last thing. We had all the Dwayne Chambers fiasco. Should he be allowed to go or shouldn’t he. Well, as Frankie Boyle said on ‘Mock the week’ The other day, lets have the drug free Olympics for all the goody two shoes lot, then have the ‘smacked off your tits’ Olympics. Because if there is a man that can run the one hundred meters in two and a half seconds, we want to see it!
Moving on, the new series of ‘The X Factor’ starts this Saturday, Hoorah! No I am not being sarcastic, I love it. Yes I know it is all contrived, manipulated and so on. Yes I know the producers drum into people they must keep using the phrases “110%” …”This means everything to me” … “It’s been a hell of a journey” so on and so on, but I am more than happy to put up with all that crap, and all the tears, and stories of deprivation, abuse, bullying, people in slow motion phoning their mums, telling them “I am through to boot camp” while “wind beneath my wings” plays in the background, if it means I get to see a disgruntled cross eyed, buck toothed mother of questionable descent batter Simon Cowell over the head with her walking stick, because he “disrespected” her eighteen stone “songbird” of a daughter. I love the way it seems that there are people on this planet, who seem to have completely different hearing apparatus than everyone else. We hear scratchy whining noises, they hear Whitney Houston. Give me more staged squabbling between the judges. Please let louise Walsh stomp off again because “Simon is a big nasty wasty man.” Oh how I want to hear internationally renowned ‘singer’ Danni Minogue criticize people for being off key. Bring on the retards! Let ‘em loose on telly. Exploitation?.......probably! You can ridicule me if you like, that would be fair enough, but I know where I am going to be on Saturday night. Sitting in front of the telly, large kebab, can of beer, and my tongue planted firmly in my cheek. One last thing on ‘The X factor’ I thought it was the best thing in the world, that last years winner, Leon something or other, was the absolute epitome of what the “X Factor” isn’t – Forgettable, uncharismatic, and above all…….average! Lol.
In other news…….I dipped my toe into the pool that is ‘Facebook’ for a few days. This all started because I had an email from my sixty-three year old Father, inviting me to be his friend on ‘Facebook’. Well, I couldn’t believe what I was reading. So I signed up, and bizarrely found that I already had a profile on ‘Facebook’! I have no recollection of doing this at all; perhaps I am a sleep surfer! Anyway, my stay in ‘Facebook’ land didn’t last long. I quickly realized that I am just as unpopular in a virtual world, as I am in the real one! So I made my excuses and left.
There is some kind of war going on down Russia way, because somebody spilt somebody else’s pint in the Balkans. UFO sightings are becoming more prevalent. God I want to see a UFO. I think I might start wandering around outside late at night, that must increase my chances of seeing one.
It’s that time of year again when we have to endure news reports that basically involve teenagers opening envelopes and screaming. Yes folks, it’s exam results time again. Oh goody. Why do news broadcasters presume that we all want to see this? It’s the same every year. I don’t know if it’s true, but apparently it’s virtually impossible to fail, so watching people pass isn’t really news is it? I know it must be almost impossible to find one that has failed, but they never show them do they? There is never one that excitedly opens the envelope, hands all sweaty and shaky, whose eyes then fill with tears, as they realize they have failed an unfailable exam! You never get the camera crew following them to the train station, and capture them buying a one way ticket to Bridge end do you? No, it’s always Joshua, Tom or fucking Emily, who inform us that they have got thirty-seven straight A’s, and will be taking a gap year in the Far East, before taking up their place at Cambridge to study law. Oh yes, and mummy has bought me a brand new Ford Fiesta sport, for being so brilliant…..Haw haw, ya and rarly cool. . . . . . . . . . . . . . Aaaaarghhhh!
I’m off to OD on blood pressure tablets, and do a spot of pilates. So it’s goodnight from me, and it’s goodnight from……….Oh, I’m on my own!
Thursday, 14 August 2008
Sunday, 25 May 2008
Lower left six
For forty years I have denied the existence of God. Poo pood any form of deity. Laughed at the thought of an all seeing Lord who art in heaven. But no longer my children, oh no, I have seen the light! And how did this road to Damascus moment occur, kick back, and I shall explain…….
Having fallen out with our previous dentist, mainly due to the fact that she was a stroppy, and incompetent bitch, we hadn’t been to the dentist for a couple of years. You know how you hear unbelievable stories about weirdoes masquerading as doctors for years and years, even performing operation etc, well I swear our last dentist was just such a person. I suffered nothing but trouble at the hands of this dentist, and so our connections with this practice were severed. This of course threw up the problem of trying to get another one. Miss Marple, being an extremely diligent and determined woman, spent weeks on the phone and the internet, and finally found one just up the road. For this good work, I made her a medal out of cardboard, and painted it gold. She was over the moon!
So off we trot for our joint first appointment. Having arrived, the usual form filling in ensued, and then we just had to sit back and wait….and wait….and wait. The trouble is, that since reaching forty, I seem to have entered some kind of second childhood. Don’t get me wrong, I am still the king of grumpy land, but a kind of annoying silliness sometimes possesses me, and always at the wrong times. There we are waiting in total silence, and I find myself rocking backwards and forwards on the chair, and humming the theme from ‘The dam busters’ with my arms outstretched. Miss Marple did her best to look unaffected by this, but I could tell by her fidgeting that I was pushing it.
While we are on the subject, I have never really had a good relationship with any of my previous dentists. It’s a very strange job really isn’t it? I have never understood why anyone would want to spend their day fiddling about in people’s horrible old mouths. Another thing that I find peculiar is the way that I am reduced to a ten year old upon entering the dentists. There I am sitting in the chair, and the dentist will say, "Have you been flossing?" I look sheepishly around the room, and reply in a feeble voice "Yes". The dentist will look at me over the top of her glasses, fold her arms and say "I’m going to ask you again, and this time, I want you to consider your answer carefully." Looking even more sheepish I say "A bit". "I don’t think we have, have we?" By this time, I am almost in tears, and with the voice of a mouse say "no". WHY? Why can’t I just say "No I haven’t been flossing. I am a grown up, and it’s my decision to let my teeth fall out, so get over it bitch"! But alas, I cannot. I do remember one quite odd experience at the dentists, when I must have been about fourteen. The school dentist was a middle aged woman, and her nurse was probably a bit younger. There I was laying in the chair, while she was attempting to carry out some procedure. She stopped and said, "You young man, have a very large tongue, and quite frankly it keeps getting in the way". She then glanced over to the nurse and said "I Imagine that you will make some lady very happy with that one day!" Muffled giggling then ensued, while I lay innocently in the chair, trying desperately to fathom what was so funny. In later years, the cause of such mirth obviously dawned on me. I can’t imagine anyone getting away with that sort of comment these days. You would be escorted from your house in the early hours of the morning, with your computer in a plastic bag, toot sweet! Unfortunately the dentist’s predictions came to nothing. I never did become cunnilingus world champion, just the odd largely unappreciated dabble…….sigh.
Anyway, on entering the dentists, I noticed two names. Both female. One was an Asian sounding name, and the other Russian-ish. In between rocking backwards and forwards on my chair etc, I spotted my two potential 'bringers of pain'. The Asian woman was middle aged, squat, and a bit dumpy, and the Ruscky was the things dreams are made of! Imagine Anna Kournikova in a crisp white dentist’s uniform, and you’re some way there. Which one would I get, which of these two women would be leaning over me, breasts only inches away from my face?......".Ah, come in please Mr. Mule", said Mrs. Patel…….Surprise surprise! "RACIST"…….I hear some of you cry, my reply to that. Don’t be so silly.
She did the examination, and found that I had a broken tooth. I knew this, but it was only the corner which had broken off. It was causing no problems at all, but she still insisted on filling it. She came up with some dental jargon as to why it needed to be repaired, but reading between the lines, it was probably that she fancied a new five iron that month, and the pain endured by me and a few other poor souls would help finance this. Oh cynicism, the curse of the mildly intelligent…….sigh. She installed a temporary filling, which as usual, had come out even before I had exited the building! At a later date, she installed the genuine, pucker, real McCoy filling, and off I went on my merry way.
It was shortly after this, that I realized there was a God! One lunchtime whilst at work, I decided to go into the local village for a mooch about. I parked the car, and strolled along the pavement, heading towards the mini supermarket there. I was hoping to sate my magazine addiction, but was distracted on the way. As I walked along, a familiar smell caressed my nostrils, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw it. The local chip shop. It was at this point that a familiar battle then ensued. It’s a battle that is rarely far from my vicinity. Whenever I face a dilemma, the usual two protagonist’s rear up to do battle. On my right shoulder is the ‘Good Angel’, lets call him Gabrielle, and on the left, the ‘Naughty devil’, lets call him Lucifer. The battle went something like this…….
Lucifer "Ooh there’s the chip shop, go on get yourself a bag of chips"
Gabrielle "Are you sure you want to do that, remember your expanding waist line"
Lucifer "Oh fuck off square, don’t listen to him, what the hell difference is one bag of chips going to make".
Gabrielle "I couldn’t agree more, ONE bag of chips would make very little difference. It’s the previous four thousand bags of chips added to this one, that are doing the damage".
Lucifer "Ignore him, he is a party pooper. It’s his fault you haven’t had as much sex or drugs as you would have liked".
Gabrielle "I’m only looking after your interests. If it was left up to him, you would be a pox ridden, morbidly obese smack head by now".
Lucifer "Christ (Irony!) he does exaggerate. He wants to chill out a bit. You need those chips, that’s what he doesn’t understand".
"Gabrielle "Oh Purleeeeese……."
This went on for sometime. The result of this inner turmoil…….
Fishcake and chips, a buttered bread roll, and a can of Pepsi!.......sigh.
I scuttled off to the car like a naughty schoolboy, and headed off to my ‘chip layby’. The chips were just how I like them, soft centered, but with a crispy outside. A half a dozen mouth fulls in, and it happened…….CRACK! The filling that had cost so much money, taken several trips to the dentist, and vast amounts of pain found itself cascading down my esophagus, among a deluge of chips. This ladies and gentlemen is how I know that there is a God. He is indeed omnipotent, and despite what the Pope, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and the Vicar of Dibley would have you believe, he is a vindictive swine!
God bless you! Mule.
Having fallen out with our previous dentist, mainly due to the fact that she was a stroppy, and incompetent bitch, we hadn’t been to the dentist for a couple of years. You know how you hear unbelievable stories about weirdoes masquerading as doctors for years and years, even performing operation etc, well I swear our last dentist was just such a person. I suffered nothing but trouble at the hands of this dentist, and so our connections with this practice were severed. This of course threw up the problem of trying to get another one. Miss Marple, being an extremely diligent and determined woman, spent weeks on the phone and the internet, and finally found one just up the road. For this good work, I made her a medal out of cardboard, and painted it gold. She was over the moon!
So off we trot for our joint first appointment. Having arrived, the usual form filling in ensued, and then we just had to sit back and wait….and wait….and wait. The trouble is, that since reaching forty, I seem to have entered some kind of second childhood. Don’t get me wrong, I am still the king of grumpy land, but a kind of annoying silliness sometimes possesses me, and always at the wrong times. There we are waiting in total silence, and I find myself rocking backwards and forwards on the chair, and humming the theme from ‘The dam busters’ with my arms outstretched. Miss Marple did her best to look unaffected by this, but I could tell by her fidgeting that I was pushing it.
While we are on the subject, I have never really had a good relationship with any of my previous dentists. It’s a very strange job really isn’t it? I have never understood why anyone would want to spend their day fiddling about in people’s horrible old mouths. Another thing that I find peculiar is the way that I am reduced to a ten year old upon entering the dentists. There I am sitting in the chair, and the dentist will say, "Have you been flossing?" I look sheepishly around the room, and reply in a feeble voice "Yes". The dentist will look at me over the top of her glasses, fold her arms and say "I’m going to ask you again, and this time, I want you to consider your answer carefully." Looking even more sheepish I say "A bit". "I don’t think we have, have we?" By this time, I am almost in tears, and with the voice of a mouse say "no". WHY? Why can’t I just say "No I haven’t been flossing. I am a grown up, and it’s my decision to let my teeth fall out, so get over it bitch"! But alas, I cannot. I do remember one quite odd experience at the dentists, when I must have been about fourteen. The school dentist was a middle aged woman, and her nurse was probably a bit younger. There I was laying in the chair, while she was attempting to carry out some procedure. She stopped and said, "You young man, have a very large tongue, and quite frankly it keeps getting in the way". She then glanced over to the nurse and said "I Imagine that you will make some lady very happy with that one day!" Muffled giggling then ensued, while I lay innocently in the chair, trying desperately to fathom what was so funny. In later years, the cause of such mirth obviously dawned on me. I can’t imagine anyone getting away with that sort of comment these days. You would be escorted from your house in the early hours of the morning, with your computer in a plastic bag, toot sweet! Unfortunately the dentist’s predictions came to nothing. I never did become cunnilingus world champion, just the odd largely unappreciated dabble…….sigh.
Anyway, on entering the dentists, I noticed two names. Both female. One was an Asian sounding name, and the other Russian-ish. In between rocking backwards and forwards on my chair etc, I spotted my two potential 'bringers of pain'. The Asian woman was middle aged, squat, and a bit dumpy, and the Ruscky was the things dreams are made of! Imagine Anna Kournikova in a crisp white dentist’s uniform, and you’re some way there. Which one would I get, which of these two women would be leaning over me, breasts only inches away from my face?......".Ah, come in please Mr. Mule", said Mrs. Patel…….Surprise surprise! "RACIST"…….I hear some of you cry, my reply to that. Don’t be so silly.
She did the examination, and found that I had a broken tooth. I knew this, but it was only the corner which had broken off. It was causing no problems at all, but she still insisted on filling it. She came up with some dental jargon as to why it needed to be repaired, but reading between the lines, it was probably that she fancied a new five iron that month, and the pain endured by me and a few other poor souls would help finance this. Oh cynicism, the curse of the mildly intelligent…….sigh. She installed a temporary filling, which as usual, had come out even before I had exited the building! At a later date, she installed the genuine, pucker, real McCoy filling, and off I went on my merry way.
It was shortly after this, that I realized there was a God! One lunchtime whilst at work, I decided to go into the local village for a mooch about. I parked the car, and strolled along the pavement, heading towards the mini supermarket there. I was hoping to sate my magazine addiction, but was distracted on the way. As I walked along, a familiar smell caressed my nostrils, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw it. The local chip shop. It was at this point that a familiar battle then ensued. It’s a battle that is rarely far from my vicinity. Whenever I face a dilemma, the usual two protagonist’s rear up to do battle. On my right shoulder is the ‘Good Angel’, lets call him Gabrielle, and on the left, the ‘Naughty devil’, lets call him Lucifer. The battle went something like this…….
Lucifer "Ooh there’s the chip shop, go on get yourself a bag of chips"
Gabrielle "Are you sure you want to do that, remember your expanding waist line"
Lucifer "Oh fuck off square, don’t listen to him, what the hell difference is one bag of chips going to make".
Gabrielle "I couldn’t agree more, ONE bag of chips would make very little difference. It’s the previous four thousand bags of chips added to this one, that are doing the damage".
Lucifer "Ignore him, he is a party pooper. It’s his fault you haven’t had as much sex or drugs as you would have liked".
Gabrielle "I’m only looking after your interests. If it was left up to him, you would be a pox ridden, morbidly obese smack head by now".
Lucifer "Christ (Irony!) he does exaggerate. He wants to chill out a bit. You need those chips, that’s what he doesn’t understand".
"Gabrielle "Oh Purleeeeese……."
This went on for sometime. The result of this inner turmoil…….
Fishcake and chips, a buttered bread roll, and a can of Pepsi!.......sigh.
I scuttled off to the car like a naughty schoolboy, and headed off to my ‘chip layby’. The chips were just how I like them, soft centered, but with a crispy outside. A half a dozen mouth fulls in, and it happened…….CRACK! The filling that had cost so much money, taken several trips to the dentist, and vast amounts of pain found itself cascading down my esophagus, among a deluge of chips. This ladies and gentlemen is how I know that there is a God. He is indeed omnipotent, and despite what the Pope, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and the Vicar of Dibley would have you believe, he is a vindictive swine!
God bless you! Mule.
Tuesday, 15 January 2008
If music be the food of love.......
Well, 2008 has arrived. Jim and myself have parted company. The dream that was to be an endless road of partying, sunshine and fun fun fun, simply wasn’t. Being cooped up with Jim for hours on end in a Bedford Rascal, started to grate after a while. You know how it is; it’s the little things that start to get to you first. Jim’s unnerving flatulence became unbearable. I had seen his stand up routine in the internet cafes so many times; I knew it off by heart. Jim also refused to drive, saying that he was used to having a chauffeur, and that was that. So off he has gone, back to Dubai, and me, well I have gone back to Miss Marple, with my tail between my legs, and a lot of explaining to do.
It seems Miss Marple’s brief dalliance with the coroner who faked my death certificate came to nothing. She was found innocent of any wrong doing, and he copped the lot. The Funeral director, who assisted the plot by ‘finding’ a body, and arranging the ‘funeral’, hasn’t been seen since my discovery on Yarmouth beach. It’s rumored that he has set up shop in the Caribbean, but nobody knows for sure. So, all back to normal then. Nothing much has changed at home. Ronnie and Reggie are still chewing stuff, the cats are still sleeping, and Miss Marple is still raising her eyebrows!
So, to today’s topic, music. I can’t remember if I have mentioned in previous ‘lectures’, that I am something of a musician. Yes I can string a few chords together on the old geeeeetar, and croak my way through a tune, but my main instrument is the piano. Up until a couple of years ago, I had played in bands on and off for about twenty years, but just recently, my love affair with music seems to have hit the skids. I don’t know why really, but perhaps the ever growing cynicism within me, has started to see that most stuff in the music biz, is just as much a load of bollocks, as just about everything else in life. Whilst driving around Norfolk in the Rascal, I had plenty of time to listen to the radio. Jim did his best to dampen this experience with his snoring, but never the less, I listened to a lot of stuff. Music really is a double edged sword. It can be the most beautiful, uplifting, sad, inspiring thing that one has ever experienced, but on the other hand, there is one hell of a lot of shit out there, and it’s the shit that I want to talk about today.
Where to start. Lyrics. Yes musicians want to portray their inner most thoughts to a waiting world. They want to get their message across, tell everybody about it. So why is it then, that they seem to forget how to use the English language? "Girl", this is a word that is used time and time again in songs, normally slushy sentimental ones, sung over a soulful slowish backing. But has any man ever called the apple of his eye, "Girl"? I bloody doubt it if he knows what’s good for him. Shouting out across a packed pub, "Hey GIRL, what are you drinking?" yes, that’s going to go down well isn’t it? Probably find yourself back on the old one pound fifty a minute lines, phoning middle aged women, who are doing the ironing, whilst assuring you that they are eighteen and busty, quicker than they might have thought! As we were passing through Fakenham the other day in the Rascal, there was a song on the radio, that actually had the line in it……."When we kiss, it makes me weep"! Oh come on dear, get a grip. Yes, you’ve guessed it; it was a soulful slushy one, with a girl singing. One of those girls that find it very difficult to just stick to the actual tune. You know the ones. Their voice is wobbling about, up and down all over the bloody place. The worst exponent of this is that bloody Mariah Carey. What the hell is she doing? Just sing the bloody tune woman. I once heard it said, that Mariah Carey has a seven octave range. Yes she might have, but five of them resemble whale noises, rather than human vocalization. If I buy a cd, (Listen to me, how old am I? Buy a cd, you should be downloading them for nuffing off the internet geezer. Come on grandad)! If I acquire some music, that consists of a human being singing, I want it to be comprehendible, and bloody audible! Not Twelve tracks by Orca the fucking whale!. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, this song with the line "When we kiss, it makes me weep". Now don’t get me wrong, I like a bit of spit swapping as much as the next man, but I can honestly say, that I have never burst into spontaneous weeping before, during, or after a session of osculation. Do you think you might be exaggerating a bit love?
You see, that’s the trouble with songwriters and such the like, they fall into the same inevitable trap that all other ‘artistes’ stumble into. They end up being pretentious wankers! This brings me nicely onto probably the King of pretentious wankers…….Sting. Christ, (To avoid spiritual imbalance, please insert your relevant God/deity/prophet here. Thank you) even the man’s name is bloody pretentious. "Sting", his proper name is Gordon, what’s wrong with that? I suppose it doesn’t sound rock and roll enough. Should a man who must be approaching sixty, really be having such a tossy name? I wonder if he gets called that at the dentist? "Sting, we are ready for you now". "Excuse me", I can hear him saying, "don’t you know who I am? Mr Sting if you don’t mind". Unfortunately, there is a worse one. Yes, one that even out tosses that tosser Sting……."The edge", for fucks sake. The more benevolent people amongst us, might try to convince me that this was a moniker he awarded himself, when he was but a callow youth. At seventeen, we do these ‘crazy’ things, they would say. . . . . . .er, no. It was wanky then, and it is wanky now. I wonder if he is just ‘The edge’ when he is in Dixons, trying to secure himself some six months interest free credit, for the large LCD telly that is wedged under his arm? I can imagine the sales assistant; pen in hand, reams of forms to be filled in.
"Right then sir, if we could start with your full name please"
"The edge"
"Er…….Is that Mr?"
"What"
"Is that Mr Edge?"
"No, Just the edge"
"Ah, you see, I have to put a name in the Christian name box, and another in the surname box, sorry it’s just company policy"
"Well put ‘The’ in one box, and ‘Edge’ in the other.
Even better, a day in court. "Council for the prosecution calls ‘The edge’ to the stand", it’s ludicrous.
I can just imagine an octogenarian judge peering at him over his glasses, bemused.
"The Edge, what do you mean, the edge? On the edge of what? What is your name laddie, your name?
The clerk of the court leans over the bench and politely whispers to the judge, "No your honour, ‘The edge’, that is his name. He is a musician.
"A Musician you say, what’s he here for then, been caught bumming on Hampstead heath I suppose".
While on the subject of ‘The Edge’ it brings me nicely to U2, which then subsequently segways me beautifully to Bono. This then brings me to my pet hate when it comes to music. Music and politics. Just don’t please. When I listen to some music, I most definitely do not want to be lectured or bullied. I don’t want anyone to try and prick my conscience, and most of all, I don’t want some pretentious git of a pop star, trying to tell me how I should be running my affairs. There is not a lot worse in this world as far as I am concerned, than fucking sting, or bloody bono, preaching to me about rain forests, or starving Africans. We all know it’s going on, and we all think it’s terrible, some of us may even try to do our bit to help, but I certainly don’t want you lecturing me about it. But they just can’t help themselves can they. There’s little Phil Collins, telling us all that we "better think twice, cause it’s another day for you and me in paradise". Is it really Phil, thing is, some peoples paradise is a lot better than other peoples isn’t it, Phil? Yes Phil’s contribution to the cessation of the plight of the homeless. Thanks.
Not only do they lecture us as individuals, once in a while, they will all band together, and lecture us on mass. ‘Live Aid’, ‘Earth Aid’, Get rid of AIDS Aid’ the list goes on. How grateful we should all be, that once in a blue moon, pop stars, celebrities, and their general hangers on, will be flown to a private air field, chauffeur driven to a large venue, snort copious amounts of free cocaine, and then take to the stage to remind us what a load of selfish bastards we are for not giving the vast majority of our paltry salaries to stop people starving, and that the death of the planet is all my fault, because my TV is on standby. Well thank you ‘The pussy cat dolls’ for putting me straight on that. I should imagine your average member of ‘The pussy cat dolls’, thinks that global warming, is a shade of lipstick!
Not content with informing me how I can help everyone else, I am then told how I can help myself. Yes, various pop entities over the years have put themselves forward as a sort of life coach. I have been advised to "Respect myself"; I have been told on numerous occasions, that "I can be who I want to be". "Dreams can come true". If I wanted any form of counseling, I certainly wouldn’t want it from Lee Ryan (ex of blue fame), or any other feckless pop pillock thank you. It’s not just the recent crop of public spirited pop prince and princes’s that offer general life advice. No, way back when, Bob Dylan was telling us that "The times they are a changing". Yeah, thanks for that Bob.
Closing in on sting on the final bend of the pretentious pop stars 1500 metres, is George Michael. I have heard him being interviewed on the radio, and he was telling everyone, that the album he had just made, was the hardest thing he had ever done. A truly traumatic experience, that left him completely emotionally drained. Oh come on George, do you think you may have let your pretentiousness run away with you? What, standing in a studio, singing a bit. It really isn’t that hard George.
Anyway, before I go, a list of some styles of music, and my opinion (Which is obviously correct!) on them.
Rock – Generally good, unless your trousers are too tight for your age.
Pop – Just there to make rich people (Simon Cowell) even richer.
Folk – Middle class people standing around in fields, with their fingers in their ears, wearing shorts, and drinking flat beer. Peace loving until Monday, when it’s back to work to screw everyone that they can.
Jazz – Can range from the sublime, to the ridiculous. Oscar Peterson, sublime. Bohemian Scandinavians throwing fish at a piano keyboard, fucking ridiculous!
Opera – Despite what toffs tell you, a form of entertainment that is aimed at the upper classes. Specifically those that have nothing better to do, than swan around pretending they know what the hell is going on in your average opera. Same sort of twats that go to the Tate, and make out that they "Can see where the artist is coming from", as they stare intently at half a shark, with a human cock in its mouth. . . . . . . sigh.
Musicals – Fairly similar to opera, but for the middle to upper working classes. Will insist on singing everything. Just tell me what you have got to say, I’ll understand without the grinning, leaping about, and singing…honest.
Hip hop – Middle class white boys pretending to be black. They rap about the harshness of life in the ghetto of Chipping Norton! Speak/rap/sing in a peculiar waya strange dialect that seems to be a mish mash of downtown Los Angeles, and Reading!
Country – These poor chaps seem to have a hell of a time. Their dogs are always dying, their wives seem to be constantly running off with their best friends, and their horses are lame. People in East Anglia seem to have a strange affinity with this style of music. When John Denver sung "Rocky mountain high" they seemed to think he was referring to somewhere just outside Pidley!
As I write this, ironically ‘That’s entertainment’ by ‘The Jam’ has just come on the radio. Did a good job of reminding me that not all songs are about some bloke wittering on about how much he loves his ‘girl’, or that she has left him, or she’s coming back, or blah blah blah. No, some songs are about real everyday things, that we all suffer or endure, or love. Maybe one day my love affair with music will be rekindled, until then, I think I will retune the wireless to ‘Radio 4’!
It seems Miss Marple’s brief dalliance with the coroner who faked my death certificate came to nothing. She was found innocent of any wrong doing, and he copped the lot. The Funeral director, who assisted the plot by ‘finding’ a body, and arranging the ‘funeral’, hasn’t been seen since my discovery on Yarmouth beach. It’s rumored that he has set up shop in the Caribbean, but nobody knows for sure. So, all back to normal then. Nothing much has changed at home. Ronnie and Reggie are still chewing stuff, the cats are still sleeping, and Miss Marple is still raising her eyebrows!
So, to today’s topic, music. I can’t remember if I have mentioned in previous ‘lectures’, that I am something of a musician. Yes I can string a few chords together on the old geeeeetar, and croak my way through a tune, but my main instrument is the piano. Up until a couple of years ago, I had played in bands on and off for about twenty years, but just recently, my love affair with music seems to have hit the skids. I don’t know why really, but perhaps the ever growing cynicism within me, has started to see that most stuff in the music biz, is just as much a load of bollocks, as just about everything else in life. Whilst driving around Norfolk in the Rascal, I had plenty of time to listen to the radio. Jim did his best to dampen this experience with his snoring, but never the less, I listened to a lot of stuff. Music really is a double edged sword. It can be the most beautiful, uplifting, sad, inspiring thing that one has ever experienced, but on the other hand, there is one hell of a lot of shit out there, and it’s the shit that I want to talk about today.
Where to start. Lyrics. Yes musicians want to portray their inner most thoughts to a waiting world. They want to get their message across, tell everybody about it. So why is it then, that they seem to forget how to use the English language? "Girl", this is a word that is used time and time again in songs, normally slushy sentimental ones, sung over a soulful slowish backing. But has any man ever called the apple of his eye, "Girl"? I bloody doubt it if he knows what’s good for him. Shouting out across a packed pub, "Hey GIRL, what are you drinking?" yes, that’s going to go down well isn’t it? Probably find yourself back on the old one pound fifty a minute lines, phoning middle aged women, who are doing the ironing, whilst assuring you that they are eighteen and busty, quicker than they might have thought! As we were passing through Fakenham the other day in the Rascal, there was a song on the radio, that actually had the line in it……."When we kiss, it makes me weep"! Oh come on dear, get a grip. Yes, you’ve guessed it; it was a soulful slushy one, with a girl singing. One of those girls that find it very difficult to just stick to the actual tune. You know the ones. Their voice is wobbling about, up and down all over the bloody place. The worst exponent of this is that bloody Mariah Carey. What the hell is she doing? Just sing the bloody tune woman. I once heard it said, that Mariah Carey has a seven octave range. Yes she might have, but five of them resemble whale noises, rather than human vocalization. If I buy a cd, (Listen to me, how old am I? Buy a cd, you should be downloading them for nuffing off the internet geezer. Come on grandad)! If I acquire some music, that consists of a human being singing, I want it to be comprehendible, and bloody audible! Not Twelve tracks by Orca the fucking whale!. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, this song with the line "When we kiss, it makes me weep". Now don’t get me wrong, I like a bit of spit swapping as much as the next man, but I can honestly say, that I have never burst into spontaneous weeping before, during, or after a session of osculation. Do you think you might be exaggerating a bit love?
You see, that’s the trouble with songwriters and such the like, they fall into the same inevitable trap that all other ‘artistes’ stumble into. They end up being pretentious wankers! This brings me nicely onto probably the King of pretentious wankers…….Sting. Christ, (To avoid spiritual imbalance, please insert your relevant God/deity/prophet here. Thank you) even the man’s name is bloody pretentious. "Sting", his proper name is Gordon, what’s wrong with that? I suppose it doesn’t sound rock and roll enough. Should a man who must be approaching sixty, really be having such a tossy name? I wonder if he gets called that at the dentist? "Sting, we are ready for you now". "Excuse me", I can hear him saying, "don’t you know who I am? Mr Sting if you don’t mind". Unfortunately, there is a worse one. Yes, one that even out tosses that tosser Sting……."The edge", for fucks sake. The more benevolent people amongst us, might try to convince me that this was a moniker he awarded himself, when he was but a callow youth. At seventeen, we do these ‘crazy’ things, they would say. . . . . . .er, no. It was wanky then, and it is wanky now. I wonder if he is just ‘The edge’ when he is in Dixons, trying to secure himself some six months interest free credit, for the large LCD telly that is wedged under his arm? I can imagine the sales assistant; pen in hand, reams of forms to be filled in.
"Right then sir, if we could start with your full name please"
"The edge"
"Er…….Is that Mr?"
"What"
"Is that Mr Edge?"
"No, Just the edge"
"Ah, you see, I have to put a name in the Christian name box, and another in the surname box, sorry it’s just company policy"
"Well put ‘The’ in one box, and ‘Edge’ in the other.
Even better, a day in court. "Council for the prosecution calls ‘The edge’ to the stand", it’s ludicrous.
I can just imagine an octogenarian judge peering at him over his glasses, bemused.
"The Edge, what do you mean, the edge? On the edge of what? What is your name laddie, your name?
The clerk of the court leans over the bench and politely whispers to the judge, "No your honour, ‘The edge’, that is his name. He is a musician.
"A Musician you say, what’s he here for then, been caught bumming on Hampstead heath I suppose".
While on the subject of ‘The Edge’ it brings me nicely to U2, which then subsequently segways me beautifully to Bono. This then brings me to my pet hate when it comes to music. Music and politics. Just don’t please. When I listen to some music, I most definitely do not want to be lectured or bullied. I don’t want anyone to try and prick my conscience, and most of all, I don’t want some pretentious git of a pop star, trying to tell me how I should be running my affairs. There is not a lot worse in this world as far as I am concerned, than fucking sting, or bloody bono, preaching to me about rain forests, or starving Africans. We all know it’s going on, and we all think it’s terrible, some of us may even try to do our bit to help, but I certainly don’t want you lecturing me about it. But they just can’t help themselves can they. There’s little Phil Collins, telling us all that we "better think twice, cause it’s another day for you and me in paradise". Is it really Phil, thing is, some peoples paradise is a lot better than other peoples isn’t it, Phil? Yes Phil’s contribution to the cessation of the plight of the homeless. Thanks.
Not only do they lecture us as individuals, once in a while, they will all band together, and lecture us on mass. ‘Live Aid’, ‘Earth Aid’, Get rid of AIDS Aid’ the list goes on. How grateful we should all be, that once in a blue moon, pop stars, celebrities, and their general hangers on, will be flown to a private air field, chauffeur driven to a large venue, snort copious amounts of free cocaine, and then take to the stage to remind us what a load of selfish bastards we are for not giving the vast majority of our paltry salaries to stop people starving, and that the death of the planet is all my fault, because my TV is on standby. Well thank you ‘The pussy cat dolls’ for putting me straight on that. I should imagine your average member of ‘The pussy cat dolls’, thinks that global warming, is a shade of lipstick!
Not content with informing me how I can help everyone else, I am then told how I can help myself. Yes, various pop entities over the years have put themselves forward as a sort of life coach. I have been advised to "Respect myself"; I have been told on numerous occasions, that "I can be who I want to be". "Dreams can come true". If I wanted any form of counseling, I certainly wouldn’t want it from Lee Ryan (ex of blue fame), or any other feckless pop pillock thank you. It’s not just the recent crop of public spirited pop prince and princes’s that offer general life advice. No, way back when, Bob Dylan was telling us that "The times they are a changing". Yeah, thanks for that Bob.
Closing in on sting on the final bend of the pretentious pop stars 1500 metres, is George Michael. I have heard him being interviewed on the radio, and he was telling everyone, that the album he had just made, was the hardest thing he had ever done. A truly traumatic experience, that left him completely emotionally drained. Oh come on George, do you think you may have let your pretentiousness run away with you? What, standing in a studio, singing a bit. It really isn’t that hard George.
Anyway, before I go, a list of some styles of music, and my opinion (Which is obviously correct!) on them.
Rock – Generally good, unless your trousers are too tight for your age.
Pop – Just there to make rich people (Simon Cowell) even richer.
Folk – Middle class people standing around in fields, with their fingers in their ears, wearing shorts, and drinking flat beer. Peace loving until Monday, when it’s back to work to screw everyone that they can.
Jazz – Can range from the sublime, to the ridiculous. Oscar Peterson, sublime. Bohemian Scandinavians throwing fish at a piano keyboard, fucking ridiculous!
Opera – Despite what toffs tell you, a form of entertainment that is aimed at the upper classes. Specifically those that have nothing better to do, than swan around pretending they know what the hell is going on in your average opera. Same sort of twats that go to the Tate, and make out that they "Can see where the artist is coming from", as they stare intently at half a shark, with a human cock in its mouth. . . . . . . sigh.
Musicals – Fairly similar to opera, but for the middle to upper working classes. Will insist on singing everything. Just tell me what you have got to say, I’ll understand without the grinning, leaping about, and singing…honest.
Hip hop – Middle class white boys pretending to be black. They rap about the harshness of life in the ghetto of Chipping Norton! Speak/rap/sing in a peculiar waya strange dialect that seems to be a mish mash of downtown Los Angeles, and Reading!
Country – These poor chaps seem to have a hell of a time. Their dogs are always dying, their wives seem to be constantly running off with their best friends, and their horses are lame. People in East Anglia seem to have a strange affinity with this style of music. When John Denver sung "Rocky mountain high" they seemed to think he was referring to somewhere just outside Pidley!
As I write this, ironically ‘That’s entertainment’ by ‘The Jam’ has just come on the radio. Did a good job of reminding me that not all songs are about some bloke wittering on about how much he loves his ‘girl’, or that she has left him, or she’s coming back, or blah blah blah. No, some songs are about real everyday things, that we all suffer or endure, or love. Maybe one day my love affair with music will be rekindled, until then, I think I will retune the wireless to ‘Radio 4’!
Thursday, 6 December 2007
Filthy Lucre.......
Hello again amigos, Davidson and Mule here…..Hey that sounds a bit like a cop show doesn’t it? I could be onto something here. I mean there is obviously room in the TV schedules for a cop show isn’t there? Practically crying out for one! Yes I am starting to envisage it. Jim would obviously be the brash, hard, tough talking, no nonsense one, and I would be the smooth suited, good with computers, ladies man. I think the Rascal would have to go out the window though, we would have to have something a lot flashier. Nothing modern, no, a classic. An E-type jag, yes that’s it. The opening titles could have some funky jazz/ hip hop track playing in the background, and you would see Jim dive in through the passenger window, while I casually slide over the bonnet, to get to the drivers side. There would be some shots of us careering through some cardboard boxes, and diving through the air in slow motion, while duel wielding a couple of magnums. Then a man with an unfeasibly low and gravely voice would say "Davidson and Mule, they’ve got zero tolerance, they’ve got a mission, they’ve got each other…….Davidson and Mule, tonight only on itv1". Oh well, I seem to have let my imagination run away with me…..now there’s a thing!
Well what exotic places have we reached, what dizzy heights have we scaled. Well, Hunstanton actually. I don’t think the rascal is quite up to touring Europe yet. It won’t actually go any faster than forty miles an hour. I am relieved to report that the clothing situation has improved a little. The leggings were starting to chaff, and a crop top really doesn’t keep you warm this time of year. I managed to wear an elderly sales assistant down in a charity shop. I bought a pair of flared jeans (the one’s with the added triangular bits at the bottom, that make them extra flared), and an anorak. I got her down from five pounds for the lot, to two pounds, although if the truth be known, I think I just got her down! I said to Jim why doesn’t he treat himself to some new clobber, but I think he has grown quite fond of the shell suit. Money is obviously tight, but we are managing to make a little. Jim does a bit of stand up in the internet cafes, while I alternate between doing this stuff, and passing the hat round.
Money really is a problem, and a mystery to me, and always has been. I have never been able to get my head around anything financial at all. I don’t know why it is, but as soon as anybody starts talking finances, I slip into a sort of coma. I remember when Miss Marple and myself had to go and see some man about our mortgage. We followed him up to this little room, and we all sat down. Then to my astonishment, Miss Marple and this man started talking in a language I had never heard before. They both seemed to be fluent in it, but I was lost. Variable rats, index kinked, fixed roots, cash back, unit trusses, double overhead cam…….What the bloody hell were they talking about?.
Of course I understand the basic principles of money, but it’s all this high brow stuff that leaves me bamboozled. Does it all need to be this complicated I ask myself? Like everything human beings get involved in, we have to twist it, turn it, and generally bugger it up beyond all comprehension. I mean I understand that way back in cave man days and such the like, one caveman would start to covert his neighbours ox…..and things. So I suppose at first there was a lot of bashing each other on the head, and running off with each others oxen…..and stuff. So I suppose somebody woke up one morning and called a meeting. I should imagine he or she, said something like, "Look, you know how we all keep wanting each others stuff and that, and we keep bashing each other on the head to get it, well surly there must be an easier, and less painful way of getting the stuff". All the cavemen and women looked around at each other, and nodded in agreement. Financial caveman carried on, "Why don’t we have a system where if any of us wants something that someone else has got, we have to swap it with them, for something we have got". All the cavemen and women looked at each other in amazement, and agreed this was a brilliant idea. Thus our financial system was born. Of course as time went by, people realized that it could take ages to come to an agreement about swapping, I mean who is to say if one man’s ox is worth another man’s wheelbarrow, or something. Is a jug worth one or two loaves of bread? It was all very tricky indeed, and fights would regularly break out. This was of course what was trying to be avoided in the first place! So somebody eventually discovered gold, and they decided amongst themselves that a wheelbarrow was worth this amount of gold, or a loaf was worth that amount of gold etc etc.
It is at this point in our history, that it starts to become tricky for me. It was after some time, that someone had the bright idea of making coins and notes. These were to represent the amount of gold one had, but made it much more portable. I understand that it is a lot easier to carry around a few sheets of paper, than it is to have a pocket full of heavy gold, but I think this is where it all started to go awry. For a start, If I am correct (and there is a high chance that I’m not!) I believe a country has to have the exact amount of paper money and coinage in circulation, as it does have gold in it's vaults. This is all very well, but does anyone ever check? Are there little men with clip boards, beards, and corduroy jackets, that go round from country to country, checking the amount of gold a country has is correct, and above board? What’s to stop a country just running off notes willy nilly? America is apparently the richest country in the world…..who says? They could just be printing off dollar bills like there is no tomorrow.
The thing that really blows my head off, is stocks and shares and all that malarkey. What are all those people doing in there? All in multicolored jackets, waving their arms about, shouting a lot, thrusting bits of paper in the air. Bloody hell, it’s madness. "What did you do today at work dear"? Asks Mrs. Stockbroker. "Did you have your purple and orange jacket on?"
"Yes I did" says Mr. Stockbroker.
"Did you wave your bit of paper in the air"?
"Oh yes, and I got it really high. I was stretching really hard like a good boy, and got it higher than anyone else’s"
"Oh well done dear, what a good boy you are, tell me, how was the shouting"?
"Well, I had to send out for some strepsils, I was shouting louder than anybody else"
"That’s my boy"
What a load of bollocks quite frankly. Do you know, I sometimes think it would be better if we went back to bashing each other over the head again.
Anyway, Jim is coming to the end of his stand up routine now. He is finishing off with the one about the two lesbian Nuns, a large candle, and a red faced Bishop. That one gets em every time. Hopefully be somewhere a little more exotic next time around.
Cheerio for now. Andy and Jim.
Ps. Can anyone tell me what a bloody Hedge fund is?.......
Well what exotic places have we reached, what dizzy heights have we scaled. Well, Hunstanton actually. I don’t think the rascal is quite up to touring Europe yet. It won’t actually go any faster than forty miles an hour. I am relieved to report that the clothing situation has improved a little. The leggings were starting to chaff, and a crop top really doesn’t keep you warm this time of year. I managed to wear an elderly sales assistant down in a charity shop. I bought a pair of flared jeans (the one’s with the added triangular bits at the bottom, that make them extra flared), and an anorak. I got her down from five pounds for the lot, to two pounds, although if the truth be known, I think I just got her down! I said to Jim why doesn’t he treat himself to some new clobber, but I think he has grown quite fond of the shell suit. Money is obviously tight, but we are managing to make a little. Jim does a bit of stand up in the internet cafes, while I alternate between doing this stuff, and passing the hat round.
Money really is a problem, and a mystery to me, and always has been. I have never been able to get my head around anything financial at all. I don’t know why it is, but as soon as anybody starts talking finances, I slip into a sort of coma. I remember when Miss Marple and myself had to go and see some man about our mortgage. We followed him up to this little room, and we all sat down. Then to my astonishment, Miss Marple and this man started talking in a language I had never heard before. They both seemed to be fluent in it, but I was lost. Variable rats, index kinked, fixed roots, cash back, unit trusses, double overhead cam…….What the bloody hell were they talking about?.
Of course I understand the basic principles of money, but it’s all this high brow stuff that leaves me bamboozled. Does it all need to be this complicated I ask myself? Like everything human beings get involved in, we have to twist it, turn it, and generally bugger it up beyond all comprehension. I mean I understand that way back in cave man days and such the like, one caveman would start to covert his neighbours ox…..and things. So I suppose at first there was a lot of bashing each other on the head, and running off with each others oxen…..and stuff. So I suppose somebody woke up one morning and called a meeting. I should imagine he or she, said something like, "Look, you know how we all keep wanting each others stuff and that, and we keep bashing each other on the head to get it, well surly there must be an easier, and less painful way of getting the stuff". All the cavemen and women looked around at each other, and nodded in agreement. Financial caveman carried on, "Why don’t we have a system where if any of us wants something that someone else has got, we have to swap it with them, for something we have got". All the cavemen and women looked at each other in amazement, and agreed this was a brilliant idea. Thus our financial system was born. Of course as time went by, people realized that it could take ages to come to an agreement about swapping, I mean who is to say if one man’s ox is worth another man’s wheelbarrow, or something. Is a jug worth one or two loaves of bread? It was all very tricky indeed, and fights would regularly break out. This was of course what was trying to be avoided in the first place! So somebody eventually discovered gold, and they decided amongst themselves that a wheelbarrow was worth this amount of gold, or a loaf was worth that amount of gold etc etc.
It is at this point in our history, that it starts to become tricky for me. It was after some time, that someone had the bright idea of making coins and notes. These were to represent the amount of gold one had, but made it much more portable. I understand that it is a lot easier to carry around a few sheets of paper, than it is to have a pocket full of heavy gold, but I think this is where it all started to go awry. For a start, If I am correct (and there is a high chance that I’m not!) I believe a country has to have the exact amount of paper money and coinage in circulation, as it does have gold in it's vaults. This is all very well, but does anyone ever check? Are there little men with clip boards, beards, and corduroy jackets, that go round from country to country, checking the amount of gold a country has is correct, and above board? What’s to stop a country just running off notes willy nilly? America is apparently the richest country in the world…..who says? They could just be printing off dollar bills like there is no tomorrow.
The thing that really blows my head off, is stocks and shares and all that malarkey. What are all those people doing in there? All in multicolored jackets, waving their arms about, shouting a lot, thrusting bits of paper in the air. Bloody hell, it’s madness. "What did you do today at work dear"? Asks Mrs. Stockbroker. "Did you have your purple and orange jacket on?"
"Yes I did" says Mr. Stockbroker.
"Did you wave your bit of paper in the air"?
"Oh yes, and I got it really high. I was stretching really hard like a good boy, and got it higher than anyone else’s"
"Oh well done dear, what a good boy you are, tell me, how was the shouting"?
"Well, I had to send out for some strepsils, I was shouting louder than anybody else"
"That’s my boy"
What a load of bollocks quite frankly. Do you know, I sometimes think it would be better if we went back to bashing each other over the head again.
Anyway, Jim is coming to the end of his stand up routine now. He is finishing off with the one about the two lesbian Nuns, a large candle, and a red faced Bishop. That one gets em every time. Hopefully be somewhere a little more exotic next time around.
Cheerio for now. Andy and Jim.
Ps. Can anyone tell me what a bloody Hedge fund is?.......
Friday, 16 November 2007
Thelma and Louise.......Bloody amateurs!
I AM FREE!…….Or should I say, we are free. Yes Jim Davidson and I have escaped from ‘The great Yarmouth home for the immeasurably bewildered’. I suppose you heard about the mini Tsunami that was supposedly heading for the east coast, well it was then that we managed to escape. The local fire brigade had paid a visit to inspect our defences, and in all the ensuing chaos, a door was left open. Well me and Jim couldn’t have asked for a better opportunity. We slipped through the door, and out into fresh air. Boy it feels good to be free again. The smell of fresh air in my nostrils, the weight lifted from my shoulders, yes freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose alright.
Of course we are technically fugitives, and to be honest, it’s a feeling I could get used to. Yes me and old Jimbo are like Bonny and Clyde, Butch Cassidy and the sun dance kid, Thelma and Louise! We are free spirits, children of the road, masters of our own destiny. We are going to live one day at a time. Live for today, and to hell with tomorrow. And do you know what, I don’t care if we are cut down in a hail of gunfire after we have held up a bank, or turned over a post office. No, because we are desperados, and we don’t let anyone get in our way man. The world is our oyster. Tomorrow Bondi beech hanging out with the surf babes, the next day Hanging out with the ’Crips’ in south side L.A. Cruising along Route 66 with the wind in our hair, and yesterday behind us.
Alright, so we have only got as far as Lowestoft, but hey it’s a start. It’s not actually quite as easy being a fugitive as I had imagined. The only vehicle we managed to hot wire, was a ‘Bedford Rascal’. Not quite the mode of transport we had hoped for as we started our life on the road, but still, better than nothing. One of the main problems we faced after our initial escape, was finding some clothes. We spent the first few hours wandering the streets of Yarmouth wearing the regulation issue smocks that we wore inside. We quickly realised that we stuck out like a sore thumb, and so had to resort to desperate means. We didn’t have a penny between us, so we had to improvise. We stalked the back gardens of Yarmouth looking for washing lines. The problem was, it was getting dark, and so it wasn’t easy to see exactly what it was that we were pinching. We grabbed some stuff, and headed back to the rascal. As a result of this, Jim is wearing a purple shell suit, with prison sandals, while I seem to have drawn the short straw on the clothing front, as I am sporting a pair of turquoise leggings, and a crop top! I am beginning to wonder if the smock wasn’t such a bad look after all.
For the time being, I will have to do the blogs from internet cafes, that is until we can get ourselves a laptop. We will have to do a ram raid on ‘Cash converters’ or something. To make living conditions a little more bearable, we are planning to convert the rascal into a camper van. A little tight for space maybe, but desperados don’t need a lot of room. While we are on the subject of living conditions, Jim does seem to have a slight problem with flatulence. Miss Marple would confirm that bottom trumpeting was something I had seemed to turn into an art form, but Jim is in a different league. The sleeping arrangements at the moment, are that we are topping and tailing in the back of the rascal. This means that I am in close proximity to Jim’s arse all night, and spend most of it extremely wind swept. I am actually starting to get chapped lips!
Anyway, I had better finish up. Jim is telling a disabled girl a joke about a black man, a Jew, and a Nazi war criminal. I am sitting here tapping away wearing leggings a crop top and lipsil. We are starting to get some funny looks, so going to move on. Where? Well we just don’t know man. Catch you later dudes…….
PS. Do you know the best thing about my new found freedom. Is it the smell of the sea air, the sound of birds singing in the morning. Maybe it’s the open road stretching before us, or the not knowing what delights tomorrow has in store for us…….No, it’s none of these things. It’s finally getting that fucking nokia out of my arse!
Of course we are technically fugitives, and to be honest, it’s a feeling I could get used to. Yes me and old Jimbo are like Bonny and Clyde, Butch Cassidy and the sun dance kid, Thelma and Louise! We are free spirits, children of the road, masters of our own destiny. We are going to live one day at a time. Live for today, and to hell with tomorrow. And do you know what, I don’t care if we are cut down in a hail of gunfire after we have held up a bank, or turned over a post office. No, because we are desperados, and we don’t let anyone get in our way man. The world is our oyster. Tomorrow Bondi beech hanging out with the surf babes, the next day Hanging out with the ’Crips’ in south side L.A. Cruising along Route 66 with the wind in our hair, and yesterday behind us.
Alright, so we have only got as far as Lowestoft, but hey it’s a start. It’s not actually quite as easy being a fugitive as I had imagined. The only vehicle we managed to hot wire, was a ‘Bedford Rascal’. Not quite the mode of transport we had hoped for as we started our life on the road, but still, better than nothing. One of the main problems we faced after our initial escape, was finding some clothes. We spent the first few hours wandering the streets of Yarmouth wearing the regulation issue smocks that we wore inside. We quickly realised that we stuck out like a sore thumb, and so had to resort to desperate means. We didn’t have a penny between us, so we had to improvise. We stalked the back gardens of Yarmouth looking for washing lines. The problem was, it was getting dark, and so it wasn’t easy to see exactly what it was that we were pinching. We grabbed some stuff, and headed back to the rascal. As a result of this, Jim is wearing a purple shell suit, with prison sandals, while I seem to have drawn the short straw on the clothing front, as I am sporting a pair of turquoise leggings, and a crop top! I am beginning to wonder if the smock wasn’t such a bad look after all.
For the time being, I will have to do the blogs from internet cafes, that is until we can get ourselves a laptop. We will have to do a ram raid on ‘Cash converters’ or something. To make living conditions a little more bearable, we are planning to convert the rascal into a camper van. A little tight for space maybe, but desperados don’t need a lot of room. While we are on the subject of living conditions, Jim does seem to have a slight problem with flatulence. Miss Marple would confirm that bottom trumpeting was something I had seemed to turn into an art form, but Jim is in a different league. The sleeping arrangements at the moment, are that we are topping and tailing in the back of the rascal. This means that I am in close proximity to Jim’s arse all night, and spend most of it extremely wind swept. I am actually starting to get chapped lips!
Anyway, I had better finish up. Jim is telling a disabled girl a joke about a black man, a Jew, and a Nazi war criminal. I am sitting here tapping away wearing leggings a crop top and lipsil. We are starting to get some funny looks, so going to move on. Where? Well we just don’t know man. Catch you later dudes…….
PS. Do you know the best thing about my new found freedom. Is it the smell of the sea air, the sound of birds singing in the morning. Maybe it’s the open road stretching before us, or the not knowing what delights tomorrow has in store for us…….No, it’s none of these things. It’s finally getting that fucking nokia out of my arse!
Wednesday, 7 November 2007
Bangs Ghoulies and the Minister for Health.......
It’s a black day in the world of mule. I haven’t been this depressed since Michael Schumacher had Damon Hill off to cheat him out of the 1994 Formula 1 world championship. Just this morning, I discovered my first grey pubic hair. Reaching 40 was pretty earth shattering, but not as bad as coming to the realisation that I have elderly testicles! How has this happened?, and why only one? I suppose it’s got to start somewhere, I suppose one of the little buggers has got to make the break, and show the rest the way. I suppose they will all be following suit now, yes, grey will be the new gingery brown. You won’t be anyone in the pubic world unless you are a shade of grey. I guess the only consolation will be that I will have a distinguished scrotum!
Anyway, enough of my pubic problems. So where have I been, and why no updates. Well, Jim Davidson and me have been in solitary confinement, due to an unfortunate incident involving the Health Minister. A couple of weeks ago, The Health minister, what ever his name is, came to visit ‘The Great Yarmouth home for the immeasurably bewildered’, as part of a nation wide tour of mental welfare institutions. He had invited his counterparts from various countries, to show them what a wonderful mental health system we have. On the day in question, Davina had given us all a pep talk, and told us to be on our best behaviour. We were all to stand in a line, and politely greet and shake hands with the various visitors. This sounded to me a little like the line up at the ‘Royal variety Performance’, only they don’t wear dressing gowns and dribble. We were to only speak if we were spoken to, and there was to be absolutely no swearing. So, as Davina was informed that the visitors were imminent, we all dutifully lined up. First in line was Father O’Tooled up, and standing next to him was Nigel. He had been made to wear a long sleeved shirt to disguise his self harming. They had even gone to the trouble to take his dressing gown away from him, to have it dry cleaned. Davina didn’t think the guests would want to be confronted with a manic depressive’s stale vomit. Next to Nigel was Cleopatra. She was asked to wear her normal clothes instead of her usual get up. She wasn’t happy about this, but she was bribed with the promise of getting her foot spa back. Rafael stood next to her. Rafael was heavily sedated due to the fact that he is a mass murderer, and today of all days was not a good time for more blood shed, said Davina. I asked her if in her opinion there was ever a ‘good’ time for bloodshed, and was quickly pocked in the back with the electric cattle prod. The prod only comes out on special occasions. Normally it’s only Christmas that it gets an airing, so today must have been very special!
So there we were, all lined up all neat and tidy. Davina bounced around like a cat on a hot tin roof, as the guests could be seen walking down the corridor towards us. “Ok everybody”, said Davina “Break a leg”. Where the bloody hell did she think we were, on stage in the west end, silly cow. Apart from being a ridiculous thing to say, it was probably a little unwise, Rafael didn’t need much of an excuse at the best of times, so virtually giving him the green light could be seen as a little foolish.
In they came. The Health Minister all suited up, with a gaggle of hangers on and general toadies. Following them were the foreign guests. There were people of all nationalities, and out of the corner of my eye, I’m sure I saw Jim lick his lips in anticipation! This could all go very wrong I was thinking to myself, as Davina guided the crowd along the line, bowing and scraping as she went. The Health Minister shook hands with Father O’Tooled up, who offered to show him what was under his cassock. The Minister politely declined, and was herded along the line as quickly as possible. He was swept past Nigel and Cleopatra, but stopped to talk to Rafael. Davina’s eyes nearly popped out of her head, and the veins on her temples were at bursting point.
“And how are you today?” asked the Minister in his very best ‘couldn’t give a shit, but disguises it as only a politician can’ voice.
Rafael gave the Minister one of those side ways glances, that dogs give each other, just before it all kicks off.
“Are you a liberal democrat?” asked Rafael in a chilling voice.
“Good Lord no”, replied the Minister, not realizing how those three little words had potentially saved him from a gruesome, and very public death.
By this time Davina’s Temples were visibly pulsating, and the Minister was now being frog marched along the line.
He stopped at Jim, and said “Hello, aren’t you er…….what’s his name. Oh you know…….er…….your somebody famous aren’t you?”
Davina jumped in, “Yes you’re quite right Minister, this is Jim, Jim Davidson, he is our only celebrity guest at the moment, and he is responding very well to treatment”.
“Hello Guv’ner” said Jim, “It’s a bleeding travesty I am in here you know, can’t you do something?”
The health Minister smiled like Dracula, just before he sinks his fangs in your neck, and said, “I’m sorry Mr Davidson, I am afraid it’s out of my hands”.
Davina, who was by now virtually hyperventilating, shoved the Minister along the line towards me, the relief written all over her face, thinking that the worst potential flash point, apart from Rafael decapitating the Minister, had been avoided. Just as the Minister reached out his hand towards me, one of the guests came face to face with Jim. He was an oriental gentleman. He was very smartly dressed, and very courteous. Then it happened.
“Hey up, so what kind are you then?” said Jim to the oriental man, “Are you a chinky, or a Jappo?”
The oriental gentleman said in a perfect Oxbridge accent, “Actually sir, I am neither, I am South Korean”.
Jim winked at him, and blurted out, “Well your all the same aint cha. You’ve all got slitty eyes and eat dogs”.
It was genuinely a shame to see Davina being dragged down the corridor to the medical room by her heels, especially after all the time and effort she had put into this visit. Needless to say, the electric cattle prod was wielded about like Luke Skywalkers light sabre. I was apparently guilty by association. Me and Jim were marched to the solitary confinement section in handcuffs, and all the way Jim was shouting “Mental mental chicken oriental”, over and over again!
Apart from that, it’s everything as usual. I suppose the only redeeming feature about being in here at this time of year, is I have managed to completely avoid the lunacy that is Halloween, and Bonfire night. I have never understood the attraction of either of these events. Out of the two, Halloween must be the craziest, for a start it’s an American tradition, and they have never been well known for good ideas.
Apart from that, it seems to fly in the face of every rule that a parent tells their child. Right from day one, parents monotonously drum into their children that…….
1. There are no such things as ghosts. Especially when little Rebecca comes down the stairs crying, saying “Daddy daddy there is a ghost in my room”, to which the parents reply “Don’t be so silly, I have told you a thousand times, there are no such things as ghosts. Besides, your Mother and me are trying to recapture our youth by smoking this joint, so go back to bed”.
2. Never accept sweets from strangers, absolutely never never never. Don’t talk to strangers, and never go off with a stranger, and
3. Always be good, best behaviour, respect your elders, other people and there property.
All very good values, and ways to behave I am sure you will agree. But on October the 31st every year, some sort of madness besets us, and parents all over the country dress their children up like something from the occult, and say to them, “Right, I want you to go up to that strangers door, knock on it, and ask him to give you something nice. If he doesn’t, throw this brick through his fucking window”!…….Bizarre.
Bonfire night is just as mad really. For 364 days of the year, MI5 do their absolute best to prevent the public from obtaining ordinance. This is obviously a commendable attempt to stop terrorist outrages, leaving people dead and injured. Then, one day a year, the madness descends again, and we can all go into our local newsagents, and buy what amounts to TNT!. Not only that, but how much fun can it be really to stand in a freezing cold field, in the pitch black, and watch somebody light a fire? It’s only because it’s a bloody tradition that we all carry on with this ridiculous behaviour, just like Christmas really, but don’t get me started on that. Think about it, just step back a minute, and look at it from a rational perspective. If a friend of yours said to you, ”How do you fancy coming to a party I’m throwing. It’s on January the 18th, and it will basically consist of standing in a field in the freezing cold and the pitch black, and then I’m going to light a fire, and endanger you and your children’s lives, by letting off some explosives“. You would justifiably tell him to bugger off! But there we all stand, stuffing sparklers into our children’s hands. (Remember rule number 4. Don’t play with fire)! Even though little Rebecca is saying Daddy daddy, it’s blinding me, and my hands are burning, we tell them to shut up, and stop disrespecting traditions. Then we all wander over to the burger van to catch botulism.
The A&E departments all over the country must curse our government for letting this insanity go on every year. People lose all sense of reason on this particular date. They stick enormous exploding rockets in milk bottles, and light them. Then when it fails to go off, go and stick their face over it to see what the problem is! I can’t imagine this happening in other walks of life. The army are storming an enemy compound, with the objective of blowing up their ammunition dump. Captain Price leans towards Private Jones and says…….
“Right son, I want you to go and plant the C4 on that ammunition dump, and get back here toot sweet”.
“Right o sir” says Private Jones. He dashes off and plants the explosives, runs back and takes cover. They cover their ears and wait for the bang.
“It doesn’t seem to have gone off sir” says Private Jones.
“Don’t worry son, ill just go and have a look”! It doesn’t happen does it?
I have never been quite sure what exactly it is we are supposed to be celebrating/commemorating anyway. Is it the fact that someone tried to blow up the houses of parliament, or the fact that he, and his fellow conspirators were thwarted? Either way, it’s not much to celebrate is it? Failing to blow up bastards that without doubt deserve it, should not be celebrated, or he was a rubbish terrorist, something else that doesn’t deserve a knees up!
Oh well, Better get back to the cell I suppose. Posh and Becks have been abandoned. After weeks of scraping, clawing, and digging, it slowly dawned on us, that we were on the second floor, and would only have succeeded in escaping into someone else’s cell.
Cheerio for now.
Anyway, enough of my pubic problems. So where have I been, and why no updates. Well, Jim Davidson and me have been in solitary confinement, due to an unfortunate incident involving the Health Minister. A couple of weeks ago, The Health minister, what ever his name is, came to visit ‘The Great Yarmouth home for the immeasurably bewildered’, as part of a nation wide tour of mental welfare institutions. He had invited his counterparts from various countries, to show them what a wonderful mental health system we have. On the day in question, Davina had given us all a pep talk, and told us to be on our best behaviour. We were all to stand in a line, and politely greet and shake hands with the various visitors. This sounded to me a little like the line up at the ‘Royal variety Performance’, only they don’t wear dressing gowns and dribble. We were to only speak if we were spoken to, and there was to be absolutely no swearing. So, as Davina was informed that the visitors were imminent, we all dutifully lined up. First in line was Father O’Tooled up, and standing next to him was Nigel. He had been made to wear a long sleeved shirt to disguise his self harming. They had even gone to the trouble to take his dressing gown away from him, to have it dry cleaned. Davina didn’t think the guests would want to be confronted with a manic depressive’s stale vomit. Next to Nigel was Cleopatra. She was asked to wear her normal clothes instead of her usual get up. She wasn’t happy about this, but she was bribed with the promise of getting her foot spa back. Rafael stood next to her. Rafael was heavily sedated due to the fact that he is a mass murderer, and today of all days was not a good time for more blood shed, said Davina. I asked her if in her opinion there was ever a ‘good’ time for bloodshed, and was quickly pocked in the back with the electric cattle prod. The prod only comes out on special occasions. Normally it’s only Christmas that it gets an airing, so today must have been very special!
So there we were, all lined up all neat and tidy. Davina bounced around like a cat on a hot tin roof, as the guests could be seen walking down the corridor towards us. “Ok everybody”, said Davina “Break a leg”. Where the bloody hell did she think we were, on stage in the west end, silly cow. Apart from being a ridiculous thing to say, it was probably a little unwise, Rafael didn’t need much of an excuse at the best of times, so virtually giving him the green light could be seen as a little foolish.
In they came. The Health Minister all suited up, with a gaggle of hangers on and general toadies. Following them were the foreign guests. There were people of all nationalities, and out of the corner of my eye, I’m sure I saw Jim lick his lips in anticipation! This could all go very wrong I was thinking to myself, as Davina guided the crowd along the line, bowing and scraping as she went. The Health Minister shook hands with Father O’Tooled up, who offered to show him what was under his cassock. The Minister politely declined, and was herded along the line as quickly as possible. He was swept past Nigel and Cleopatra, but stopped to talk to Rafael. Davina’s eyes nearly popped out of her head, and the veins on her temples were at bursting point.
“And how are you today?” asked the Minister in his very best ‘couldn’t give a shit, but disguises it as only a politician can’ voice.
Rafael gave the Minister one of those side ways glances, that dogs give each other, just before it all kicks off.
“Are you a liberal democrat?” asked Rafael in a chilling voice.
“Good Lord no”, replied the Minister, not realizing how those three little words had potentially saved him from a gruesome, and very public death.
By this time Davina’s Temples were visibly pulsating, and the Minister was now being frog marched along the line.
He stopped at Jim, and said “Hello, aren’t you er…….what’s his name. Oh you know…….er…….your somebody famous aren’t you?”
Davina jumped in, “Yes you’re quite right Minister, this is Jim, Jim Davidson, he is our only celebrity guest at the moment, and he is responding very well to treatment”.
“Hello Guv’ner” said Jim, “It’s a bleeding travesty I am in here you know, can’t you do something?”
The health Minister smiled like Dracula, just before he sinks his fangs in your neck, and said, “I’m sorry Mr Davidson, I am afraid it’s out of my hands”.
Davina, who was by now virtually hyperventilating, shoved the Minister along the line towards me, the relief written all over her face, thinking that the worst potential flash point, apart from Rafael decapitating the Minister, had been avoided. Just as the Minister reached out his hand towards me, one of the guests came face to face with Jim. He was an oriental gentleman. He was very smartly dressed, and very courteous. Then it happened.
“Hey up, so what kind are you then?” said Jim to the oriental man, “Are you a chinky, or a Jappo?”
The oriental gentleman said in a perfect Oxbridge accent, “Actually sir, I am neither, I am South Korean”.
Jim winked at him, and blurted out, “Well your all the same aint cha. You’ve all got slitty eyes and eat dogs”.
It was genuinely a shame to see Davina being dragged down the corridor to the medical room by her heels, especially after all the time and effort she had put into this visit. Needless to say, the electric cattle prod was wielded about like Luke Skywalkers light sabre. I was apparently guilty by association. Me and Jim were marched to the solitary confinement section in handcuffs, and all the way Jim was shouting “Mental mental chicken oriental”, over and over again!
Apart from that, it’s everything as usual. I suppose the only redeeming feature about being in here at this time of year, is I have managed to completely avoid the lunacy that is Halloween, and Bonfire night. I have never understood the attraction of either of these events. Out of the two, Halloween must be the craziest, for a start it’s an American tradition, and they have never been well known for good ideas.
Apart from that, it seems to fly in the face of every rule that a parent tells their child. Right from day one, parents monotonously drum into their children that…….
1. There are no such things as ghosts. Especially when little Rebecca comes down the stairs crying, saying “Daddy daddy there is a ghost in my room”, to which the parents reply “Don’t be so silly, I have told you a thousand times, there are no such things as ghosts. Besides, your Mother and me are trying to recapture our youth by smoking this joint, so go back to bed”.
2. Never accept sweets from strangers, absolutely never never never. Don’t talk to strangers, and never go off with a stranger, and
3. Always be good, best behaviour, respect your elders, other people and there property.
All very good values, and ways to behave I am sure you will agree. But on October the 31st every year, some sort of madness besets us, and parents all over the country dress their children up like something from the occult, and say to them, “Right, I want you to go up to that strangers door, knock on it, and ask him to give you something nice. If he doesn’t, throw this brick through his fucking window”!…….Bizarre.
Bonfire night is just as mad really. For 364 days of the year, MI5 do their absolute best to prevent the public from obtaining ordinance. This is obviously a commendable attempt to stop terrorist outrages, leaving people dead and injured. Then, one day a year, the madness descends again, and we can all go into our local newsagents, and buy what amounts to TNT!. Not only that, but how much fun can it be really to stand in a freezing cold field, in the pitch black, and watch somebody light a fire? It’s only because it’s a bloody tradition that we all carry on with this ridiculous behaviour, just like Christmas really, but don’t get me started on that. Think about it, just step back a minute, and look at it from a rational perspective. If a friend of yours said to you, ”How do you fancy coming to a party I’m throwing. It’s on January the 18th, and it will basically consist of standing in a field in the freezing cold and the pitch black, and then I’m going to light a fire, and endanger you and your children’s lives, by letting off some explosives“. You would justifiably tell him to bugger off! But there we all stand, stuffing sparklers into our children’s hands. (Remember rule number 4. Don’t play with fire)! Even though little Rebecca is saying Daddy daddy, it’s blinding me, and my hands are burning, we tell them to shut up, and stop disrespecting traditions. Then we all wander over to the burger van to catch botulism.
The A&E departments all over the country must curse our government for letting this insanity go on every year. People lose all sense of reason on this particular date. They stick enormous exploding rockets in milk bottles, and light them. Then when it fails to go off, go and stick their face over it to see what the problem is! I can’t imagine this happening in other walks of life. The army are storming an enemy compound, with the objective of blowing up their ammunition dump. Captain Price leans towards Private Jones and says…….
“Right son, I want you to go and plant the C4 on that ammunition dump, and get back here toot sweet”.
“Right o sir” says Private Jones. He dashes off and plants the explosives, runs back and takes cover. They cover their ears and wait for the bang.
“It doesn’t seem to have gone off sir” says Private Jones.
“Don’t worry son, ill just go and have a look”! It doesn’t happen does it?
I have never been quite sure what exactly it is we are supposed to be celebrating/commemorating anyway. Is it the fact that someone tried to blow up the houses of parliament, or the fact that he, and his fellow conspirators were thwarted? Either way, it’s not much to celebrate is it? Failing to blow up bastards that without doubt deserve it, should not be celebrated, or he was a rubbish terrorist, something else that doesn’t deserve a knees up!
Oh well, Better get back to the cell I suppose. Posh and Becks have been abandoned. After weeks of scraping, clawing, and digging, it slowly dawned on us, that we were on the second floor, and would only have succeeded in escaping into someone else’s cell.
Cheerio for now.
Sunday, 7 October 2007
Every little helps.......
Psst…….Andy here again. Well I’m still here. They haven’t wised up and realised I am a genius, and not mad yet. I don’t know how long they are planning on keeping me here, but not for much longer if me and Jim have got anything to do with it. We have formed an escape committee, and are presently digging two tunnels, one from each of our cells. You know how in the ‘Great escape’ they named their tunnels ‘Tom, Dick and Harry’, well we have named ours ‘ Posh and Becks’. I have to admit we haven’t got that far yet, I am using a pair of nail clippers that Norman smuggled in for me, and Jim is using a tea spoon that he stole from the canteen. Anyway, I will report on the progress of Posh and Becks at a later date. I suppose there are one or two advantages to being in here. I don’t have to go to work, get stuck in traffic jams, go shopping. Oh God going to Tescos used to be like hell on earth to for me. The hell started way before getting in the actual shop. The feeling of utter despair used to hit me as soon as I saw the queue for the bloody car park. This of course was not because there were that many people trying to get in there, it was because of the idle bastards who insisted on crawling round and round, trying to find a space right near the door. You know the one’s, those arseholes who just stop in the middle of the road because they have spotted someone just leaving the shop, who might have a parking space right near the door, that they can nip into. Why oh why oh why can’t I be allowed to have a rocket launcher. The next time I and every other poor soul is confronted with one of these twats, it should be my human right to step out of my car, hoist the rocket launcher on to my shoulder, and blast the bastard right out of the car park! But alas, they won’t listen to me. Even if there are parking spaces right near the doors, I am not allowed to park in them. No, that’s because I am not a mother with child. Why do they have special spaces just for them? Would it really hurt poor fragile little Joshua or Victoria to walk fifty feet every now and again? If it’s not them, it’s the bloody disabled. God what a bunch of moaning gits they are aren’t they. So you have only got one leg, I have got a bit of a headache, but it apparently doesn’t entitle me to park near the doors! The thing that always amuses me about disabled parking spaces, is that when it is raining, the bright orange paint that covers them, turns into a slippery death trap. Oh the irony! I am quite frankly fed up with these cordoned of parking areas for ‘special’ people. Where is it going to stop? It surely won’t be long before we have a ‘Gay and lesbian’ parking zone. Or a ‘Muslim parking area’ Lets not stop there, why not have ‘Jewish parking bays’, although these should be kept as far away from each other as possible! ‘East European parking zones’ (which they tarmac themselves) could be set up. How long will it be before some sort of car park ushers are employed to direct you to the relevant parking area. In a similar vein to those bloody ‘Greeters’ you get just inside the doors in supermarkets. “Hello sir. I hope you have a pleasant retail experience with us here today”. or, “If there is anything I can help you with, please don’t hesitate to ask”. What about telling that fucking woman in the frozen vegetables aisle, to stop leaving her fucking trolley in the middle of the aisle, so that nobody else can get passed, and inform her that although it may come as a bit of a shock, there are actually other people on the planet apart from her. This will have to wait of course, as I am still out in the car park. Where was I?…….oh yes, the car park ushers. They would obviously be issued with a fluorescent vest, which would no doubt make them feel very important, and it would be their job to direct you to the relevant car parking zone, depending on your special needs or requirements.
Attendant “Good morning sir, I am your ‘ Vehicle parking zone attendant’, and I will be making your stay with us here today, as pleasant as possible. Now what special needs or requirements does sir have”?
Me “Er none really, I just want to park”.
Attendant “I’m sorry sir, I can’t release you into the parking area, until I have ascertained your special individual requirements”.
Me “Well that’s very kind of you, but I don’t have any special needs, I just want to park, and get on with the shopping”.
Attendant “Well I’m sorry sir, but your not passing this check point until I have fully assessed you. Are you a homosexual sir?”
Me “No”.
Attendant “Have you ever thought about it?”
Me” No”.
Attendant “Oh come now sir, I think we all have wondered what a little dabble would be like, I know I have.”
Me “Well I haven’t”.
Attendant “Are you disabled?”
Me “No”.
Attendant “Are you a Muslim or any other member of a religious minority?”
Me “No”.
Attendant “Immigrant?”
Me “No”.
Attendant “Are you a Mother with child?”
Me “Do I look like it?”
Attendant “Single parent family?”
Me “No”.
Attendant “Mmm, well I have been right through my list, and you don’t seem to be very special at all do you sir. Ok, You will have to go and park over there, in the ’Nothing special area’.
Me “Well how far is it?”
Attendant “Just over there sir, look there is a sign, here, use my binoculars”.
Inside the shop is no better. I have already mentioned the bloody woman with the huge trolley parked in the middle of the aisle. Incidentally, this woman is guaranteed to have an enormous four wheel drive vehicle parked in a ‘Mother and child’ slot. In the back of this behemoth of a car, there will be two specifically tailored, bullet proof titanium and carbon fibre child car seats for little Joshua and Victoria, and behind them, a dog guard for the spaniels. Richard, her husband, will be something big in advertising, and they will live in a mock Tudor five bedroom house in a small village. Victoria loves her pony, and Joshua is of course captain of the his school croquet team…….Where is that rocket launcher?
No shopping trip would be complete of course, without having to listen to some dickhead talking loudly into his mobile phone. He is asking his wife if they have got any coco-pops, and also telling her that Gavin and himself closed that vital deal today…….FUCK RIGHT OFF. Why do people shout into mobile phones? Do they understand the concept of a mobile phone? I sometimes wonder how the hell I survived before the days of mobile phones. I remember all those years ago, when I would happily swan off miles and miles in the car to somewhere or other. Not once did it cross my mind that I might break down, and if I had of broken down, I would have simply walked to the nearest phone box, or called at the nearest house, where some benevolent lady would let me use her phone to call for assistance, while she offered me tea and cake to sustain me. Now I can’t venture upstairs to the toilet without being laden down with communications equipment. Quite what disaster might beset me on my arduous journey upstairs I don’t know, but there I am, mobile phone, spare mobile phone. Battery charger, spare battery charger portable telecommunications aerial in case I can’t get a signal…….dear God what has happened to us all?
Anyway, what’s been happening in the asylum, sorry Davina doesn’t like us using that term, she prefers ‘Mental welfare environment’. Well not a lot really. Me, Jim, Cleopatra, Nigel, Rafael, and Father O’Tooled up were in the T.V. Room the other day, and Davina came in and informed us that the health minister would be visiting us next week, on a whistle stop tour of the countries ’Mental welfare establishments’. She said we were to all be on our best behaviour. In other news, Jim is still not responding to treatment. He was apparently still shouting “Shirt lifter” even when he was strapped to the bed, and plugged into the mains. Nigel the manic depressive had to be talked down off the roof of the gymnasium again. This is becoming a regular occurrence, and I have to say can be quite entertaining. I did think it was very tactless of Jim to shout up to Nigel the last time he was up there, would he mind threatening to kill himself on Tuesdays in future, as there wasn’t much on the telly that day. The Pols are still winking and blowing kisses at me, and I have to say, that due to the lack of female companionship these last few weeks, it has surprisingly put a bit of a spring in my step! Nothing much else to report really, will write again after the health ministers visit. Cheerio for now.
Yours Andy.
Attendant “Good morning sir, I am your ‘ Vehicle parking zone attendant’, and I will be making your stay with us here today, as pleasant as possible. Now what special needs or requirements does sir have”?
Me “Er none really, I just want to park”.
Attendant “I’m sorry sir, I can’t release you into the parking area, until I have ascertained your special individual requirements”.
Me “Well that’s very kind of you, but I don’t have any special needs, I just want to park, and get on with the shopping”.
Attendant “Well I’m sorry sir, but your not passing this check point until I have fully assessed you. Are you a homosexual sir?”
Me “No”.
Attendant “Have you ever thought about it?”
Me” No”.
Attendant “Oh come now sir, I think we all have wondered what a little dabble would be like, I know I have.”
Me “Well I haven’t”.
Attendant “Are you disabled?”
Me “No”.
Attendant “Are you a Muslim or any other member of a religious minority?”
Me “No”.
Attendant “Immigrant?”
Me “No”.
Attendant “Are you a Mother with child?”
Me “Do I look like it?”
Attendant “Single parent family?”
Me “No”.
Attendant “Mmm, well I have been right through my list, and you don’t seem to be very special at all do you sir. Ok, You will have to go and park over there, in the ’Nothing special area’.
Me “Well how far is it?”
Attendant “Just over there sir, look there is a sign, here, use my binoculars”.
Inside the shop is no better. I have already mentioned the bloody woman with the huge trolley parked in the middle of the aisle. Incidentally, this woman is guaranteed to have an enormous four wheel drive vehicle parked in a ‘Mother and child’ slot. In the back of this behemoth of a car, there will be two specifically tailored, bullet proof titanium and carbon fibre child car seats for little Joshua and Victoria, and behind them, a dog guard for the spaniels. Richard, her husband, will be something big in advertising, and they will live in a mock Tudor five bedroom house in a small village. Victoria loves her pony, and Joshua is of course captain of the his school croquet team…….Where is that rocket launcher?
No shopping trip would be complete of course, without having to listen to some dickhead talking loudly into his mobile phone. He is asking his wife if they have got any coco-pops, and also telling her that Gavin and himself closed that vital deal today…….FUCK RIGHT OFF. Why do people shout into mobile phones? Do they understand the concept of a mobile phone? I sometimes wonder how the hell I survived before the days of mobile phones. I remember all those years ago, when I would happily swan off miles and miles in the car to somewhere or other. Not once did it cross my mind that I might break down, and if I had of broken down, I would have simply walked to the nearest phone box, or called at the nearest house, where some benevolent lady would let me use her phone to call for assistance, while she offered me tea and cake to sustain me. Now I can’t venture upstairs to the toilet without being laden down with communications equipment. Quite what disaster might beset me on my arduous journey upstairs I don’t know, but there I am, mobile phone, spare mobile phone. Battery charger, spare battery charger portable telecommunications aerial in case I can’t get a signal…….dear God what has happened to us all?
Anyway, what’s been happening in the asylum, sorry Davina doesn’t like us using that term, she prefers ‘Mental welfare environment’. Well not a lot really. Me, Jim, Cleopatra, Nigel, Rafael, and Father O’Tooled up were in the T.V. Room the other day, and Davina came in and informed us that the health minister would be visiting us next week, on a whistle stop tour of the countries ’Mental welfare establishments’. She said we were to all be on our best behaviour. In other news, Jim is still not responding to treatment. He was apparently still shouting “Shirt lifter” even when he was strapped to the bed, and plugged into the mains. Nigel the manic depressive had to be talked down off the roof of the gymnasium again. This is becoming a regular occurrence, and I have to say can be quite entertaining. I did think it was very tactless of Jim to shout up to Nigel the last time he was up there, would he mind threatening to kill himself on Tuesdays in future, as there wasn’t much on the telly that day. The Pols are still winking and blowing kisses at me, and I have to say, that due to the lack of female companionship these last few weeks, it has surprisingly put a bit of a spring in my step! Nothing much else to report really, will write again after the health ministers visit. Cheerio for now.
Yours Andy.
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